


You're The One That's Going Down

by lj_todd



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Assassination, Death, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-23
Updated: 2014-01-23
Packaged: 2018-01-09 17:19:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1148729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lj_todd/pseuds/lj_todd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Five Starks (and One Bastard) Who Killed Joffrey Baratheon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You're The One That's Going Down

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a prompt from the kinkmeme:
> 
> _The Stark kids (And Jon Snow) all whack Joffrey (Because Joffrey needs to die as many times as possible). Points for inventiveness and not killing him in the same way._

**_[1]_ **

Robb met the Lannister bastard, the so called King of Westeros, on the battle field.

He was surprised by Joffrey's boldness. He had expected the little lion to hide behind his army and the walls of King's Landing. He was also surprised by the bit of skill Joffrey showed with his sword, but he saw the fear in Joffrey's eyes, saw that the so called king was little more than a frightened child. It should have stirred some compassion within him. He knew what it was to be a frightened boy fighting a war, in the early days of his so called rebellion he had been just that, but this frightened boy had ordered the death of his father. Had tortured and nearly broken his sister. Had threatened to kill his wife and unborn child.

Robb Stark, the Young Wolf, King in the North, Master of Winterfell, had no compassion for Joffrey, bastard son of Jaime and Cersei Lannister.

They came together, again and again, in a clash of ringing steel.

But Joffrey held none of the battle experience that Robb had. The would-be-king had hid in King's Landing for much of the war, seeing only the Battle of the Black Water which, Robb had heard, he had fled from the moment Stannis Baratheon's forces had looked to be winning. While Robb had taken victory after victory, fighting right alongside his own troops. His experience was well earned and it served him well. It took him little time to disarm Joffrey, forcing the boy to his knees while a circle of Northern soldiers gathered around them to witness the defeat of the Lannister bastard.

Joffrey, despite the fear Robb could still see in his eyes, glared up, almost definitely, at Robb.

"Well, Stark," Joffrey snapped as he continued to glare, trying to act brave. "You've got yourself quite the prisoner now."

Robb frowned and shook his head.

"You are misinformed." Robb took note of Dacey Mormont stepping closer to him, ready to serve at a single word, her gaze fixed on Joffrey, hand gripping her mace tightly. "You are not a prisoner for a bastard does not make a good bargaining chip."

Joffrey's eyes widened as he seemed to realize what Robb was really saying.

"I am a King!" Joffrey went to stand but was quickly shoved back down by two soldiers, their hands gripping his shoulders to keep him in place. "You can't..."

"You are no King," Robb replied calmly, coldly, looking down at the boy who was responsible for all that had happened. "You are nothing more than the bastard child who has brought misery and suffering to Westeros."

"You can't do anything to me! My grandfather is..."

"Of little concern," Robb cut over Joffrey's words and a cold smile graced his face. "Right now you should be more worried with making your peace with the Seven."

"You...You wouldn't dare..."

Joffrey was trembling now and Robb took a small amount of pleasure in that, in knowing he'd reduced the so called king to this.

"My Lord Father once told me that the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword." Robb moved, resting the tip of his sword to the ground as he had once seen his father do before executing a deserter from the Night's Watch. "And Joffrey Baratheon, I hear by pass your sentence."

Joffrey's eyes filled with nothing but fear and, while a small part of Robb now felt bad for the boy, he knew he was more than justified in what he was doing.

"For the crimes of murder, torture and incitement of war, I, Robb Stark of House Stark, Master of Winterfell and King in the North, hereby sentence you to die." Robb looked Joffrey in the eye. "Have you any final words?"

"Gods damn you, Robb Stark! My grandfather will kill you for this!"

"He's welcome to try."

Robb nodded to his solders who immediately held Joffrey down. Joffrey struggled but there was nothing he could do. With a deep breath, Robb steeled his nerves and, with a final prayer to the Gods that Joffrey find his place in the deepest of the Seven Hells, he swung his sword, taking the bastard boy's head just as Joffrey's executioner had taken his father's.

Justice was served.

 

**_[2]_ **

"Or maybe he'll give me yours."

Sansa knew the moment the words had left her mouth that it was a mistake. When she looked at Joffrey, saw the stunned look on his face slowly turn to anger, she thought he would hit her. But he surprised her by saying that his mother told him a King never struck his lady. When his knight, Ser Maron, did it for him she didn't cry out. No tears slipped from her eyes, though it was a near thing. She suddenly felt as though she'd been dunked in ice water.

She looked at Joffrey again as blood trickled from her split lip, and suddenly found the ice gripping her melt, an intense and fiery rage taking its place.

She wanted to hurt the King then.

Wanted to beat and cut him and make him hurt like she did. Wanted to do the worst possible things she could imagine to him.

She wanted to kill him.

For the Northern men he had killed.

For her Septa who had sacrificed her own life her.

For her Father, who she'd begged mercy for, but had been killed despite her pleas.

Glancing down from the walkway she saw just how far a drop it was. Should a person fall it would kill them. She slowly looked back up at Joffrey, who was looking up at her father's head, a sight that still repulsed her but also filled her with a determination she'd not felt since the day of the execution. She drew a slow, deep breath, and knew what she had to do.

Joffrey couldn't be allowed to live.

He was not fit to be King.

He was cruel and vile and nothing but a monster.

Without realizing what she was doing she found herself walking forward. Her steps sounded loud, impossibly loud, and, just as Joffrey looked up at her, confusion on his face, she reached out, grabbing hold of him, her nails biting through the fabric of his tunic, and she used all of her strength to shove him from the walkway. His scream rang loud and clear, echoing in her ears like the howl of a distant wolf, and she watched him fall with a deep feeling of satisfaction even as reason began screaming that she too was about to die.

She watched, numbly, as Joffrey hit the stone street below, watched the crimson blood that pooled around his head and a small smile graced her face. She'd done it. She'd killed the monster who'd butchered her father.

A sound behind her caused her to turn, expecting Ser Maron or one of the other members of the Kingsguard to be there with sword in hand, she was surprised to find the Hound standing there, his armour and cloak splattered with blood. Blinking in confusion she glanced towards where the others had been, only to find their bodies laying on the ground, just as broken and lifeless as their King.

"If you want to live past today," the Hound...no, Sandor, his name was Sandor...said gruffly, glancing quickly about, searching for any who might have heard Joffrey's scream or the fight. "Then come on, girl."

She nodded and hurried after him, staying as close as she could, the numbness finally slipping away and in its place a growing fear. She'd killed Joffrey. She'd killed the King. Before she could think more on that, Sandor tugged her into a room, what looked like a bedchamber. When he tossed a plain dress at her she frowned, holding the fabric and looking at him.

"Change, girl, and be quick about it." He moved away, yanking the white armour off as he moved. With a soft sound she quickly did as he'd said. By the time she was in the plain dress, Sandor was in his familiar black armour, sword strapped to his back. He looked at her for a moment before reaching out and undoing her hair before he plated the strands into a simple braid, covering it with a dark scrap of clothe. "Now," he said once finished. "We leave this cursed city."

She nodded and once more followed him.

By the time the alarm bells were ringing they were well passed the city gates, Sandor's horse running at full gallop. She clung to him, looking back at the capital, at the place she had once thought would be her future. But no longer. Arya had been right after all. About Joffrey. About King's Landing. About all of it. She prayed to the Seven her sister was safe and that they would see each other again soon.

"Just hold on, little bird," Sandor said softly, his voice still gruff but comforting. He'd risked everything for her. She would not forget that. "I'll take you home."

"Thank you," she whispered back, head resting against his shoulder as her eyes slipped shut. "Thank you."

 

**_[3]_ **

Light and nimble as a cat. Quick and silent as a shadow. Powerful and lethal as a direwolf.

Arya Stark was no longer the scared little girl who'd fled King's Landing with a group bound for the Night's Watch. She was no longer the awkward child who could barely wield her sword properly. She was older. She was stronger. She was a proven killer. And she had returned to King's Landing for more than justice. She had returned for vengeance. A vengeance long overdue.

It hadn't taken much effort for her slip into King's Landing unnoticed. Suffering people rarely paid attention to the comings and goings of strangers when they had enough to worry about with the city guard and a King as vicious and unpredictable as Joffrey. She'd spent three days in the city, watching and learning the habits of the royals and those that guarded them. It was keying in determining when the best time, where the best place was, to strike.

She'd been trained well. And that training served her well.

In her three days of studying she learned that her sister, Sansa, and Lord Balish, had both vanished from the city a week or so before her arrival. There were whispered rumours of where they'd gone but of all she heard Arya knew that it was the Veil that Lord Balish would run to. To her Aunt Lysa. Sansa would be safe there. Or at least safer than she had been in the capital. When her business here was complete she would ride for the Veil, she would collect her sister, and together they would go home.

On the third night of her time in King's Landing she left the little hovel of an inn she'd been staying and slowly made her way to the tunnels that led into the dungeons of the Red Keep. Even after all this time she still knew the paths to take. In the darkness of the tunnel she could easily remember being a child, running from those who sought to harm her, to use her as a pawn in a political game she still couldn't fathom.

Her emotions, usually kept tightly controlled, swirled like a storm and she felt her blood run hot with rage and hate.

Joffrey Baratheon, the bastard son of two Lannister lions, was the reason her father had been executed. The reason her brother and mother had been butchered. The reason her sister had suffered endlessly for months. Joffrey Baratheon was the reason her entire world had fallen apart and turned to ash all around her. But he was also the reason she had pushed herself, had learned to kill. And tonight he would discover just what a lethal creature he had had a hand in creating.

Moving in the shadows she easily avoided the guards, slipping into the King's room with ease, drawing her knife from the sheath on her belt as she moved. The knife, a gift when she'd completed her training, was made of Valyrian steel and was sharper than any blade she had held before it. She had already used it skilfully, several men in Volantis breathing their last breath before the blade opened their throats.

Hiding in the shadows as she slipped deeper into the room she found Joffrey sitting at his desk, looking over a map that showed the Riverlands. No doubt he was attempting to figure out what to do it with, now that her uncle was a prisoner of the Freys. Her grip tightened on her knife as she easily slipped around behind him. She stared at him for a moment, taking in the sight of him, the sight of the man responsible for so much death and destruction. Her rage stirred again but she pushed it down. Now was not the time for rage. She had to be calm. Or at least as calm as she could be given who her target was.

When Joffrey started to rise she made her move.

Moving forward with silent grace she grabbed a fistful of his hair, wrenching his head back, using the back of the chair between them as better leverage as he was taller than her, and placed the edge of the blade against his exposed throat.

"Make any sound, any attempt to call the guards, and I'll open your throat."

Joffrey squirmed but a harder press of the blade had him stilling instantly.

"Who...Who are you..." he croak the words, her fingers tightening in his hair as she thought, for a moment, of the terror her sister must have felt at the hands of this now frightened little boy.

She smiled. "I am winter's daughter," she whispered in his ear. "And I am here to hear your last confession."

"You'll be...hunted down and...and killed as a traitor for...daring to do this..." Joffrey was trying to sound strong when she could feel him shaking. It made her smile widen. "I'll put your...head...on a spike!"

"I think not," she replied, pressing her knife close enough to draw a little bit of blood, taking small pleasure in the way he whined and tried to move away from the blade. "By the time anyone finds you you'll be dead and I will be long gone from this accursed city."

"You...You cunt..."

That made her growl. The last time this despicable bastard had called her a cunt it had cost her Nymeria. Her beautiful, loyal and protective direwolf had been forced to run all for the crime of defending her from this lunatic. Pressing her blade closer to his throat she drew a slow, deep breath, calming herself before she spoke.

"You asked me who I am," she growled in his ear, feeling him tense further even as the acrid scent of urine filled the air. By the Gods the little bastard had just pissed himself. It made this all the better. "I am the daughter of the man you had killed just because he knew that you _are not_ Robert Baratheon's son. I am the sister of the king you paid to have killed just so he wouldn't crush you like the worm you are." He tried to struggle then, clearly suspecting her identity now and trying to get free so that he could turn on her but she easily maintained her grip. "I am Arya of House Stark and the North Remembers, _Your Grace._ "

She made sure to spit the title at him before she quickly, and efficiently, drew the knife across his throat, blood spilling forth like a warm, crimson river.

She released him them, watching as he clutched at his neck, attempting to speak, to call out, with his ruined throat, smiling as he finally slumped, dead, over the top of his desk. She wiped the blade of the knife on his robe, lingered a moment longer to appreciate her work, before vanishing into the night like a shadow. Days later, when she was safely far from King's Landing and heading for the Veil, she heard of the so called king's death, of the assassin not yet found, she laughed and felt better than she had in years.

 

**_[4]_ **

Spring had just settled into Westeros, the snows melting and life slowly returning to the land, dawn had just broken when Bran moved his horse from the spot in the forest where he'd been hiding, Summer close to his side, the wolf's eyes ever watchful and wary. After years of hiding, years of learning and training beyond the Wall, he had come back to the South with one purpose in mind.

Vengeance.

Most of his family was dead. All because of the madness of Joffrey Baratheon.

But today would be the end of the bastard.

And a bastard was exactly what Joffrey was.

During his training Bran had seen and learned much. Including the truth of the so called King's parentage. Bran also knew that nearly six months earlier an assassin had attempted to poison Joffrey but had failed. He had not ingested enough of the poison and as such had managed to survive. Though he was not the same spoiled brat who was responsible for the deaths of thousands. The poison, though it had not killed Joffrey, had crippled the bastard. Joffrey no longer had the use of his left arm and his left leg was stiffened to the point that he had to walk with a cane.

No longer was Joffrey a physical threat but the bastard still had his thugs, his so called knights of the Kingsguard, do his dirty work.

Bran would not be so foolish as to attempt to get close to the false claimant to the Iron Throne. He reached up and touched the bow slung over his shoulder as his horse stepped through the trees and into the small clearing. His crippled state might have made wielding a sword or axe difficult but the bow was a weapon he had easily, and quickly, learned to master from horseback.

He tugged his horse to a stop, Summer sliding easily and silently away into the trees, hiding for his part in what was to come. Pulling the bow from his shoulder he drew a deep breath. He knew Joffrey would be riding through this clearing to reach Casterly Rock. The bastard King was traveling there to visit his mother, who had been cast from the court after Joffrey had married the Tyrell girl. It would be his best, his only, chance to take his vengeance.

Balancing in the saddle he drew an arrow from the quiver by his leg, nocking it to the bow and waiting.

He did not have to wait long.

Minutes later and the royal caravan came into view and right there, riding in the open as though he had no fear, was Joffrey. The bastard was older than the last time Bran had seen him, but that had been so long ago, so many years, that it shouldn't have been surprising. For Bran was also changed. He was no longer the boy who had been pushed from a tower. And today he would prove it.

Drawing back the bowstring he drew a deep, steadying breath, watching Joffrey as the bastard King glanced up, seeing him in the early morning light and freezing like a hare scenting a fox. He met Joffrey's gaze, and he smiled coldly, darkly, as recognition slowly filled those pale, watery eyes. The bastard King started to move, trying to use his good hand to pull the horse off to the side, but Bran was quicker.

The arrow loosed and it sang as it sailed through the air.

Joffrey had just started to shout, no doubt calling for his guard, when the arrow pierced his throat. By the time this happened Bran had nocked another arrow and loosed it, watching with satisfaction as the second arrow slammed into Joffrey's right eye, sinking deep. It was a kill shot. Instantly. The tip piercing into the bastard King's brain. As Joffrey pitched backwards, toppling from his horse in a heap, his Kingsguard began to rush forward, only they got no further forward than their King had.

Bran watched as Summer burst from the trees, mauling and savaging the so called knights. He listened to the screams, watched the men die, and only when the clearing fell silent did he move. Urging his horse forward, his direwolf falling into step next to him, he paused by Joffrey's body, staring down at the bastard King's body. His smile widened as he reached over and scratched behind Summer's ears, not surprised when his wolf looked at Joffrey's lifeless form and growled.

"The wolves," he said as in the distance a howl echoed, followed by another and then another and another. His brothers and sister. Returning from their scouting and raiding missions. "Have come again."

Summer threw his head back and howled, announcing a successful hunt to his litter mates.

Slinging his bow back to his shoulder Bran turned his horse and rode off, Summer right by his side, and when he reached the fields leading towards the Trident, towards the North, he was greeted by the sight of three direwolves waiting on a hill, their masters no doubt right behind them. His smile widened and with a flick of his wrist he urged his horse into a faster gait. Yes, the wolves had come again. Now, with the false King dead, it was time to reclaim the North.

 

**_[5]_ **

When Rickon returned to the North he allowed people to think he did not clearly remember his family or what had happened to them. But he remembered. Nearly every night he dreamt of those he had lost. His father. His mother. His brother. All taken because of one little bastard's madness. And all he wanted, more than to find his still living brothers and sisters, was to rip Joffrey Baratheon's head from his prissy little shoulders.

He wanted to rip Joffrey apart and watch him bleed to death.

And he thought he would never get the chance. Joffrey rarely ventured from the capital. But then, one cold day, near the Twins, when he was on a scouting mission with a handful of men from Bear Island, Osha, his loyal guardian, and Shaggydog, he saw the bastard. Strolling along the bank of the Trident with his wife, the Tyrell bitch, as though he hadn't a care in the whole damned world. It made Rickon's blood boil.

There were only four guards with the bastard and his bitch and Rickon glanced at his men, six in all, and they nodded at him, quietly drawing their weapons. They knew, just as he knew, that they would never get a chance like this again. That this was their moment to not only kill the bastard but to avenge his family. They would not pass this moment up.

With a nod of his head he sank his fingers into the thick fur of Shaggydog's neck, using his grip to hoist himself up onto his direwolf's back, settling there as easily as he settled in the saddle of a horse. He pulled his mask, crafted from the skull of a wolf, over his face as he looked at Osha who nodded, her hand touching his knee for the briefest of moments as she handed him a spear before she, and the men, fanned out so they could circle around Joffrey and his men. He watched for a moment before he nudged Shaggydog with his knee, his direwolf breaking into a run, heading straight for Joffrey.

It took moments, a few heartbeats, for Shaggydog to cover the distance and by the time Joffrey and his men realized what was happening it was too late.

He heard the battle cries of his men, of Osha, but his focus was completely on Joffrey, on the bastard who had stolen everything from him. Well, today, he was taking something back. Today he was taking revenge. For the North. For his family. For himself.

Using his spear he knocked Joffrey, who had been attempting to draw his sword, off his feet. He heard the Tyrell bitch scream but kept his focus on his target. A true hunter. Shaggydog turned, circling around to keep Joffrey separated from his men, who were already falling to the Bear Islanders and Osha. The Tyrell bitch was still screaming as Rickon leapt from his direwolf, heading straight for the bastard king, Shaggydog circling around to face the bastard who staggered to his feet, teeth bared and a deep growl, like thunder from a distant storm, reverberating through the direwolf's chest.

Joffrey managed to draw his sword, pointing it at Rickon. "You...You will suffer for daring to attack the King!"

Rickon snorted, flipping his spear so the shaft was against his back, a sign of his lack of concern about the threat Joffrey presented. Because Joffrey presented no threat. Not to him. Not when the bastard's men were dead or dying, something he could see from the corner of his eye, he could see Osha grab the Tyrell bitch, dagger to that pretty little throat.

"I dare to do more than attack," Rickon growled, moving slowly, purposefully. A wolf stalking a rabbit. "And you are no King. You are nothing but a bastard without honour."

Joffrey's eyes blazed with fury but he didn't attack like Rickon had expected.

"And who are you? Some piece of shit Northerner thinking to make a name for himself? I am the _King_ , boy. Even if you slip away today I will have Lord Bolton hunt you down!"

Rickon heard his men all laugh and he couldn't help the feral grin that spread across his face beneath the mask. Reaching up, he pulled something from beneath the collar of his tunic, snapping the leather cord that held it about it neck and throwing it at Joffrey's feet. "Lord Bolton," he sneered as Joffrey looked down at the piece of back bone. "Is your lapdog no longer. _I_ control the Dreadfort. _I_ hold Winterfell. The North has risen against House Bolton and eradicated it as surely as your grandfather eradicated House Reyne."

Joffrey paled visibly, looking back up at Rickon, trying to look intimidating and failing. He scoffed and Rickon's grin widened.

"And I am to believe the Northerners follow you? Some nobody from some backwater farm that was fortunate enough to take that beast?"

Shaggydog growled and Joffrey quickly looked at the direwolf, wary of him.

Rickon chuckled darkly as he reached up and pulled his mask off, letting it rest once more against his back, right between his shoulders. "I," he said strongly, confidently, spinning his spear around until it pointed at Joffrey. "Am Rickon Stark, heir of Winterfell. And today, Joffrey, bastard of Cersei and Jamie Lannister, today you will pay for your crimes against my family."

He heard Joffrey's sharp intake, saw the fear trickle into those eyes, seconds before Joffrey lunged, attempting to drive his sword through Rickon's chest but the younger man easily danced aside, using it spear to strike Joffrey in the back, knocking him into the dirt once more. He waited until the bastard was back on his feet before knocking him right back down. Oh Joffrey put up plenty of fight, but it was obvious the so called king had no true battle experience. Not like Rickon. Joffrey had grown up in luxury. Had been given everything and anything he'd wanted. Rickon had had to fight for the things he had. The things he wanted. And that would give him the advantage. He knew that, no matter what, Joffrey was going to die today.

After being knocked down again, Joffrey leapt up and came at Rickon screaming, sword slashing, but the young Stark spun, danced away, lashing out with his spear, catching Joffrey across the abdomen, blood flying and the scream that ripped from Joffrey's throat brought another feral grin to Rickon's face. He watched as Joffrey dropped to one knee, a hand going immediately to the cut. It was deep but not a killing blow. Just a distraction really because from one heartbeat to the next Rickon had disarmed the bastard, pressed his spear to the exposed neck and stood over his prey with all the confidence of a man who'd just won a great victory.

"Any last words, bastard?"

Joffrey glared up at him. "Go fuck yourself!"

Rickon's grin slipped and his face twisted with rage, eyes blazing with it, and he quickly moved his spear away from Joffrey's neck, using the shaft and a quick, strong blow to break the bastard's arm. The scream was like music and Rickon seized Joffrey's good arm, twisting it behind his back even as he spun the bastard, forcing him to look at the massive black direwolf that slowly approached.

"This is for my family," he hissed in Joffrey's ear, smelling the acrid stench of urine and knew that the bastard had just pissed himself. And it was no wonder really. Shaggydog's hackles were raised, teeth bared and those eyes blazed like Wildfire. "For the people who have suffered and died because of you."

Joffrey squirmed, tried to pull away, but the broken arm and Rickon's iron grip kept him held fast.

Shaggydog growled again and Joffrey screamed just as the direwolf lunged. The scream became a gurgled sound as Shaggydog's fangs sank deep into the bastard's neck and chest. Rickon heard the Tyrell bitch scream but his focus was on Joffrey, watching the blood spill, watching the life drain from the bastard's eyes. When he was satisfied he let go of the body and stepped back, watching Shaggydog shake the dead bastard for a moment before dropping him.

Looking at Osha, who was still holding a dagger to the Tyrell bitch's throat, waiting for his order, he shook his head. "Let her go," he said as he stepped over Joffrey's corpse, climbing onto Shaggydog's back. "Let her return and tell of what happened here. Let her tell of the return of the wolves."

Osha sneered at the woman before releasing her, shoving her away, the Bear Islanders laughing when the bitch stumbled and fell, right into a puddle of blood. Not sparing the bitch another glance Rickon guided Shaggydog with his knees, his men and Osha following him back up the riverbed. Word would spread of the bastard king's death. People would know that he had returned and had reclaimed the North for House Stark. It brought a smile to his face. Soon, he hoped, his brothers and sisters would hear the news and would return to Winterfell. The coming days were looking bright indeed.

 

**_[+1]_ **

Jon sat on the steps leading up towards the Iron Throne, staring down at the boy who had called himself a king, chained and forced to kneel before him, those sharp blue eyes glaring daggers at him despite the boy's position as prisoner.

Joffrey looked like an enraged, caged lion just then and, for a moment, Jon felt sorry for the boy. If things had been different, if Joffrey had been different, then perhaps things would never have come to this. Perhaps his family would not have suffered so much pain and loss.

He looked then, to his right, to where Bran and Rickon stood with Sansa and Osha, the Wildling woman who called Bran _Little Lord_ and was fiercely protective, like a she-wolf, of Rickon, who clung to her skirt. To either side of the group stood Summer and Shaggydog, the direwolves watching, waiting, the black had not stopped growling since the guards had hauled Joffrey into the room. He thought about what they had suffered, especially Sansa, at Joffrey's hand and command and it made his blood boil with rage and fire.

No more.

Joffrey's reign of terror was over.

He looked back at Joffrey, who was still glaring at him, and he saw that, if it were not for the guards, for the chains, then Joffrey would have attacked him. Would have tried to kill him.

With a deep breath Jon slowly stood. "Did you know," he said calmly, watching Joffrey track his movements. "That my grandfather and my uncle both died in this room?"

He looked around the throne room, saw Joffrey do the same, a brief flicker of concern and fear flashing across the bastard lion's face.

"My uncle, Brandon, strangled himself to death trying to save my grandfather, Lord Rickard, from burning to death." Jon paused and looked at his family, all of them knew this, but what he was about to reveal was known only to a select few. "All at the insane command of my grandfather, Aerys."

Whispers broke out throughout the room, all shocked by Jon's words, but it was Joffrey who dared to scoff.

"I am to believe you are a child of Rhaegar Targaryen?" Joffrey sneered at him and Jon's gaze narrowed. "I think you've had your head shove too far in the ice, _Snow_."

"I can vouch for the Prince's identity," Lord Varys called out from where he stood, beside him Lord Howland Reed nodded. "As can Ser Jaime Lannister, Lord Howland and Lord Stannis."

"It doesn't matter what you believe," Jon replied calmly, ignoring Varys' outburst, stepping towards Joffrey. "What matters is that you shall not be leaving this room again."

Nodding to one of the guards he watched as a leather cord was wrapped around Joffrey's neck, the straps attached to a device that had not seen the light of day since the reign of Aerys II. He watched as Joffrey's eyes widened, understanding dawning in the blue eyes, and the bastard lion started to struggle, only to still when the cord tightened. Jon smiled as another guard handed him Joffrey's sword, liberated from the younger man during the Battle of the Red Keep.

"I'm not as cruel as my grandfather," Jon said as he unsheathed Hearteater, examining the blade before placing it on the floor just before Joffrey. "I'll give you more of a fighting chance than he gave my Uncle Brandon. If you reach that sword, Connington will release you, and you'll be given the opportunity to face me in armed combat. If not, well, I do hope you've made peace with your gods."

The chains were removed from Joffrey, the strangulation device remained, and Jon watched this before he returned to the steps, sitting down to watch. Joffrey didn't move, not at first, he merely knelt there, watching Jon, weighing what he'd said. Jon heard Sansa mutter about Joffrey being too much of a coward to try and get to the sword, and apparently Joffrey heard it as well because he snarled and tried to move forward, a sputtering sound falling from his lips as the cord tightened around his neck.

Jon smiled as he watched Joffrey fight, arm reaching out, grabbing for Hearteater's hilt, and his fingers just barely touched it. The cord, despite how it looked, did not loosen whenever Joffrey stilled. It remained tight and from where he was seated Jon could see the way the leather cut into the flesh of Joffrey's neck, thin trickles of blood running down pale skin. He watched as the tips of Joffrey's fingers just barely brushed the hilt of the sword, but the lack of air, the panic setting in, caused the bastard lion's arm to jerk, hand grasping uselessly for the sword, knocking it further away.

He watched as Joffrey struggled until, finally, his body went lax.

Connington checked and then gave him a nod.

Standing up, Jon glared down at the lifeless body, feeling for the first time since his family had been torn apart that they were finally on the path to healing. He drew a deep breath and looked at Connington. "Burn the body."

He turned away then, looking at his family, watching Sansa hug Bran and Arya tightly while tears rolled down her face. She was smiling brightly for the first time since Jon had found her in the Vale and it made his heart sore to know that never again would she fear Joffrey Baratheon. Never again would his family be playthings for the insane bastard. That chapter of their lives was over for good.

A hand cupped his cheek and he jerked a bit, looking at the man standing in front of him, grey eyes locking with violet. A smile spread across a pale face. "You did well, little brother."

Jon could help but smile as he leaned into Aegon, his brother's armed wrapped around his shoulders supportively, protectively. It reminded him of Robb. Of Theon. Of the life he would never have again. But it also reminded him that there was a new life waiting for him. That he, and his family, would endure and thrive.


End file.
